


The Small Weird Loves

by Verayne



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickfic, prompt fills, the mortifying ordeal of being soft, yes i use pretentious richard siken titles now
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:41:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25690750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verayne/pseuds/Verayne
Summary: Unconnected short stories, about the quiet moments.
Relationships: Gene Hunt/Sam Tyler, Tenth Doctor/The Master (Simm), The Doctor/The Master (Doctor Who)
Comments: 44
Kudos: 105





	1. Ten/Simm: Necessary Cuddles

**Author's Note:**

> Most of these will be prompt-fills from tumblr, and I'll adjust rating, tags and fandoms as appropriate. My tumblr is [veraynes-blog](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/veraynes-blog), if interested.

**Prompt: [Cuddling] out of necessity - trapped in a small space, etc. Ten/Simm.**

* * *

It's the Doctor's fault entirely that they're being chased through the city by gun-toting aliens. Worse, the lanky sod has the audacity to be _faster_ , as well, and damn him if he isn't starting to pull ahead as they race through busy streets in their frantic attempt at escape. The Master winces, trying to conceal a stitch. He's never been one for all the _running_ that comes from simply accompanying the Doctor anywhere.

He gives a breathless shout, tilts his head in the direction of the street market he can see ahead of them. At least the Doctor seems to get his plan without discussion, and changes course with a quick dart. They go careening into the press of the crowd, immediately surrounded by shoppers and stalls and produce and the general chaos of an open marketplace.

It won't be enough to conceal them entirely though, the Master thinks, sparing a glance back for pursuers; so when he sees his chance he makes a dive for the Doctor and grabs at him to halt the mad flight. The other Time Lord comes round in confusion - and the Master takes the opportunity to grasp at his coat and haul him downwards, inelegantly grappling him towards one of the stalls and the concealing tarp that drapes over it. He practically shoves the Doctor underneath it, one quick assessing glance confirming that no one's looking too closely at them in the bustle, and then he ducks down and follows him into the hiding spot.

There was a time he remembers fondly, not so long ago, when his dignity would not have tolerated the tenuous ridiculousness of his current position. He's not sure what it says about the general success of them travelling together that this isn't even the worst thing to happen to him this week.

The Doctor is sprawled on his back in the confined space, a bit stunned and out of breath, and to the Master's deeply felt horror there really isn't anywhere else left to go but to brace himself over the other man. He kneels awkwardly, unable to rise properly underneath the low stall, having to plant his hands either side of the Doctor's shoulders so the cobblestones dig into his palms. He can feel the incredulous, furious expression on his own face as he glares down at the other, wordlessly promising retaliation for the predicament at some future date, but he's too desperately out of breath to say anything even if they didn't need to keep quiet.

He must be panting louder than he'd thought, though, because the Doctor looks a bit worried, then raises a hand and has the nerve to press it over the Master's mouth to make him stop. The Master promptly drops down onto one elbow so he can smack the offending appendage off him, and there's a brief, hushed, thoroughly undignified scuffle in the narrow space. The Master has him pinned by one wrist when the Doctor finally relents, using his free hand to put a finger to his own lips instead, obviously straining to listen for the sounds of anyone searching for them amid the general hubbub of the market. 

Placated for the moment, the Master tries to breathe deeper and slower, bowing his head. But the little fight has removed even the pretense of personal space, so his forehead ends up resting against the Doctor's shoulder. He briefly considers jerking upright again, but it's not like another minor bruise to his ego makes much difference at this point. The muscles in his shoulders are starting to ache too, from trying to keep himself braced, and after a few seconds' defeated deliberation he lets his weight settle in increments against the Doctor's chest.

"Not a word," he fairly breathes in warning, right next to the other's ear.

He feels a little hitch from the body beneath him and realises the Doctor must have silently snorted laughter. Of course he thinks this is funny, the prat. This sort of spectacle never happened to the Master back when he was travelling alone. No, the universe likes to save such indignities for those foolish enough to follow the Doctor.

The other Time Lord fidgets a bit beneath him as they wait, apparently looking for somewhere to put his too-long limbs. One wrist is still clamped tight in the Master's grip, but, after a moment's hesitation, his other hand settles carefully against his back. The Master goes fleetingly tense at the contact, then tries to ignore it as just another sacrifice to pragmatism. He's at least starting to feel better, relaxing despite himself as his breathing finally slows and his hearts stop racing quite so dramatically.

But then perhaps he shouldn't have tempted fate, because the Doctor chooses that moment to flatten his hand firm against his back and smooth a way up his spine, and the Master's heartsbeat gives another quick jump at the unfamiliar intimacy. The Doctor tilts his head, rubs his cheek against the Master's hair in a little animal gesture of affection, as his palm settles just below a shoulderblade.

Cautiously, the Master lifts his head enough to look at him. He frowns, hoping vaguely that it reads as a warning, but rather suspecting it resembles something closer to doubt.

The Doctor smiles faintly up at him, unrepentant and unashamed of the thousand loaded implications he's just loosed between them. His eyes are crinkled at the corners, bright with unvoiced enjoyment of the whole ordeal, and the Master is viscerally reminded of the comet-streak of chaos that trails through his friend.

The tendons of the Doctor's wrist flex in his grip, urging him to let go. The Master opens his hand, curious, and watches as the Doctor lowers his arm enough that the Master's fingertips bump instead against his palm, and then against the tips of his own fingers. The Doctor slowly flexes his hand wide, and it feels almost inadvertent when they slot together palm-to-palm. The Master draws a quick, unsteady breath, not sure if it's in protest or query, but completely unable to look away from the innocuous connection. He opens his mouth and the Doctor's arm immediately tightens around him, reminder that they're not supposed to speak, and the Master has just enough time to realise that's probably for the best because he has precisely no idea what he was about to say, except -

"Oi, you two!" There's a sudden rumple of tarp, and they both freeze as the cover over one side of the stall is pulled up, leaving them squinting in the unforgiving glare of sunlight at the ruddy human face that peers in at them. He's apparently the stall owner. "The blokes chasing you kept going, but you're gonna have to take this somewhere else, lads, alright? Got customers to serve."

The Master blinks helplessly, and then manages a painfully stiff nod of acknowledgement, not knowing what else to do. The tarp is tossed down over them again, presumably to afford brief privacy while they untangle themselves.

The Doctor trembles slightly beneath him, and he looks down still wearing his blank look of disbelief. It's enough, apparently, to send the other man tipping over into bright laughter, and he leans up to press the sound right against the Master's throat, like they're sharing it.


	2. Ten/Simm: Post-Coital Cuddles

**Prompt: [Cuddling] post-coital. Ten/Simm, post-EoT AU.**

* * *

It had all been quite sudden, really. Certainly not planned. The Doctor supposes they'd been a bit caught up in the rush of everything, the sheer high of both of them unexpectedly surviving. Humans said that happened, sometimes, didn't they? Something about what leftover adrenaline and shared trauma could inspire between people, if you happened to be so inclined. He's not sure he's ever really been inclined before, that he's noticed.

Difficult to make the same claim now.

They hadn't even made it halfway across the TARDIS control room before the odd conviction had struck him that he simply couldn't go without contact for another few seconds. He remembers automatically reaching out, remembers the Master responding far too quickly to not have been thinking similar - and then, entirely without the input of reason or caution, the next thing he'd known he'd been dragging at the Master's hoodie, trying desperately to get it up over his head as quickly as possible so they could keep kissing; both of them touching blindly and pulling at each other, stumbling into consoles as they tried to navigate, still too much at odds to do anything with coordination; the Master swearing annoyance against his mouth as he'd stripped the Doctor's coat from him and promptly gotten it tangled round their feet -

'Life-affirming', the Doctor recalls abruptly, _that’s_ what humans call it: the desire for contact and sensation and connection, in the wake of some tragedy or trauma. Life-affirming. It makes more sense to him, now.

It isn't gentle, but then that's not the point. Every bite pressed too hard against his skin; every demanding, appreciative pull of his hair; bruises left like fingerprints across all the untouched parts of him; every shove and hiss and rough breath traded helplessly back and forth - it's exhilarating, every second of it, as he's brought startlingly alive by sensation.

The Master says his name at the last moment, barely a whispered admission pulled from him unwillingly, and the Doctor thinks he understands at last the other man's frequent need to be named like vindication.

It feels a little like returning to sanity, afterwards, as they lie shoulder to shoulder trying to catch their breaths, adrenaline and hormones subsiding, and it slowly occurs to him that just about every part of him hurts fiercely. Ah. Well. That slightly dampens the brief transcendence of the experience, he has to admit. Still, he assumes it wouldn't be quite as bad, if he hadn't thrown himself straight through the roof of a building about an hour ago...

He's fully prepared for the Master to make himself scarce the moment he's physically recovered enough to do so. It had been a hard-won fight just persuading him onto the TARDIS, the Doctor suspects it's pushing his luck to hope he'll linger in bed longer than absolutely necessary.

But, to his faint surprise, the Master doesn't move immediately. He doesn't say anything either, as their breathing slowly calms, and eventually the Doctor dares a curious glance across. It's dark in the room, dim glow from the corridor the only light to see by, and he lets himself watch the Master's shadowed profile for a few moments. The other man's eyes are lowered as he stares blankly, apparently lost in thought. He looks distant. A bit sad, even.

Not exactly the response the Doctor had been hoping for, if he's being honest. He tries fleetingly not to let it dent his ego.

"Hey. Are you... alright?"

The Master doesn't indicate he's heard the question for a while. His stillness is so absolute, so at odds with the capricious energy he's used to, that the Doctor doesn't feel able to disturb it. He waits, not wanting to look away.

"He said I was _diseased_ ," the Master intones at last, subdued, drawling the words into the darkness like he's testing the sound of them. His lip curls slightly, flashing the line of his teeth, but otherwise he still doesn't move.

The Doctor blinks. No need to ask what he's referring to; he thinks the moment might be etched in both their memories whether they like it or not. He wants to answer, but isn't immediately sure what there is to say. Refuting it seems too self-evident, even mildly condescending. Comfort would be trite and unwelcome.

He hesitates too long, and the moment passes. The Master closes his eyes for a few seconds, stretches, then seems at last to sense the Doctor's attention on him. Irritated, he shoots across a scathing look and turns away, onto his side, so the Doctor is left staring at his back. But he still doesn't move to leave.

It's the last that makes him understands, finally, in a little flash of revelation. The Master has no use for the notion of 'life-affirming' anything. He's always blazed with defiant force of life, even against the odds, even half-dead already. He's never needed the Doctor for that much. Confirmation that he's still alive isn't what he's looking for from this.

Only that he's wanted.

The Doctor hesitates a last few seconds, holding his breath, and then turns onto his side as well. Every movement careful, hardly daring what he's about to do, he slides himself across the scant space.

He places his fingertips lightly against the Master's shoulderblade first, testing his reception. The shoulder rises with obvious tension, but other than that there's no response. It's as close to permission as he's going to get, the Doctor thinks, and settles closer. He rests his hand briefly against the Master's upper arm, then lower, sneaking across the dip of his waist. Slots himself against his spine, precise, until he feels a second set of heartbeats against his own. He presses his mouth hard against the top of the other man's shoulder, mostly to keep himself from saying anything stupid.

It feels distinctly like cradling something dangerous, something edged and bladed, tight against his stomach. Like any false move will gut him.

For long, torturous seconds the Master is rigidly still. He's silent, hardly feels like he's breathing, and the Doctor has to hold his nerve as he tries to figure out what the reaction is likely to be.

A hand haltingly closes round the wrist that rests against the Master's stomach. The grip feels undecided, for a moment, and then tightens sharply, holding him in place. More sure of his welcome, at least, the Doctor lifts one knee to hook over the Master's hip, and tilts his head to nose at the newly blond hair. He smells faintly of bleach and ozone and fear.

The Master lets out a hard, short breath like it's been shocked out of him, hissing, "If you ever say a word -"

"I won't. Shut up."

He practically wraps round him, determined now, tangling limbs wherever he's able, dragging the other Time Lord back against him. The Master just clutches at his wrist and lets him.

They stay like that, purposely not speaking. Anything worth saying is pressed silently upon skin.


	3. Sam/Gene: Reunion Cuddles

**Prompt(s): [Cuddling] in the backseat of the car /** **Reunion cuddles. Sam/Gene.**

Pretty sure this takes place somewhere in the [Godawful Small Affair](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1777465) series. 

* * *

It's nearly 3 in the morning by the time the medics grudgingly say Sam's free to go (since, with trademark obstinacy, he refuses to get in the ambulance for what he insists are just a few bruises and a bit of dehydration), and Chris is done carefully taking down his initial statement of what happened inside the derelict factory building before the rest of the team had gotten there.

Gene stands away from him, busy surveying the efficient chaos of the crime scene. He watches Ray bully the last of the handcuffed perps into the back of a police van (with a sly smack that Gene automatically erases from memory); Cartwright crouching down and pointing at the cut length of rope they'd used to keep DI Tyler secured for the past 29 hours (not that he counted); the plods taking photos of the dropped guns that'll go in the evidence file later.

He wants desperately to light a cig, or better yet take one or five swigs from the hipflask in his pocket, but his brain hasn't quite dropped out of crisis-management mode yet. He's still on high alert, noticing everything that's happening around him, braced for whatever unlikely emergency or threat comes next. If he starts to relax, even a bit, he's afraid the grim fury and adrenaline that's gotten him this far will fade out of him, and instead - well. He doesn't want it happening in the middle of his crime scene, is all.

So he keeps his hands shoved deep in his coat pockets, keeps a scowl fixed firmly in place, glaring around the scene where his DI had almost been shot through his idiotic head an hour ago.

"Guv."

Gene doesn't react immediately as the idiot in question slouches towards him, instead swiftly cataloguing the sight he makes as he gets nearer. The docs have slapped an adhesive bandage across his forehead, over where the muzzle flash had singed him. He's got a split lip and the beginnings of a nasty shiner, and he winces as he slowly pulls his leather jacket back up over his shoulders.

"Gonna get a lift home, if you don't need me for anything else here."

Gene grunts. "I'll drive you." He says it without thinking, still not looking at him direct. It's not so much an offer as an order.

Sam pauses, eyeing him speculatively, then nods. "Thanks."

With effort, Gene forces himself to move at last from his glowering vigil, striding off towards the Cortina. He passes Ray as he goes, growls an order to take over running the scene, and then he's impatiently slamming his way into the car. Sam follows at a more sedate pace, faintly dubious expression on his face as he picks his way round to the passenger's side and gets in.

Gene doesn't look at him, and doesn't speak, as he gets the car in gear and pulls quickly away from the curb. It's almost oppressively quiet. Neither of them turns on the radio, and they're practically the only car out on the dark streets.

Which, actually, might be a blessing in disguise, because Gene hasn't slept in a little over 29 hours (funnily enough), has been running on single-minded focus, caffeine and nicotine throughout, and now that it's all on the downturn he realises belatedly it might be taking something of a toll. There's a tight, nervous feeling building in his chest, and every time he tries to switch gears his hand feels numb and clumsy on the stick. When he actually stalls the car at a set of lights, Sam has the audacity to shoot him a scandalised glance, and Gene knows he has to take a minute here.

There's a multi-storey carpark coming up, and he manages to keep himself under control long enough to steer the Cortina into the first floor of it. This time of night it's all but empty so he parks haphazardly over the lines, fumbling the engine off. His hands are shaking slightly.

Sam's looking at him like he's lost his mind now, eyebrows up in disbelief. "What's up with you?"

Gene turns on him wordlessly, aware that he's slightly wild around the eyes but truly unable to believe the right _div_ he has for a DI sometimes. For a man who likes to spend all his energy proving how right and smart and superior he is most days, Sam isn't half thick when he wants to be.

"You got yourself _kidnapped_ ," he practically spits, suddenly furious that he even has to say it, acknowledge it, _explain_.

Sam just frowns offence. "I didn't exactly go asking for it -"

"But you _did_ , though, didn't you?! Couldn't just do what I said for once, had to go skulking off on your own -"

"If you'd _come with_ me when I asked, I wouldn't have had to -!"

" _No_ ," Gene snaps, bouncing his palm off the steering wheel. "You don't sodding well get to give the orders, Sam, you get to listen to them! And I said _wait_!"

His DI blinks, taken aback. He goes quiet for a few seconds, forehead all puckered up in bemusement - and then clearly can’t help himself. "But I was _right_! And, by the way, _I'm_ the one who just spent the last God-knows-how-long tied to a bloody _chair_! But yeah, course, have a go because I showed you up -"

"You honestly think that's what I'm bothered about, you smarmy little git?!" He's hissing, frozen, near trembling in his outrage. He means to launch into a tirade about the unbelievable recklessness of going off alone half-cocked, the shit example that's been set, the sheer _hell_ Gene's put his team through this past day and night demanding results from them. Instead, what barks out is, "I just nearly watched you get shot in the _face_. Believe me when I say, I do not give a _fuck_ if you were right!"

The other man at least has the grace to look embarrassed, wincing a bit. "I didn't mean... It would have been..." He stops, floundering, and at last Gene sees the slow realisation pass through him, sees him stop short and reassess what exactly they're arguing about. His shoulders drop, defensiveness easing off him as he finally seems to notice the strength of feeling currently radiating through the car. "Oh. Hey. But it's... It's fine, though. I'm fine."

He starts to reach out a soothing hand to touch him, and without thinking Gene smacks it down hard. They glare at each other for a few seconds. Sam goes to move again, determined, but Gene jerks away a second time. Still, neither of them say anything. His jaw is clenched so hard it hurts, nostrils flaring as he tries to breathe through the anger that's building in him.

He's not even sure what he's more furious about: that Sam defied him, or that he apparently thought nothing of the heart-stopping near-disaster Gene walked in on tonight, and which will no doubt be fixed behind his eyes for the foreseeable. It clearly hasn't occurred to the prat that Gene might have some thoughts on that. And alright, they've only been doing this 'behind closed doors' thing for a couple of weeks, it's not something they really talk about, but it's just... Well, he hadn't thought...

He'd assumed it went without saying, that he wouldn't be taking the risk of it all if it didn't bloody _mean_ something.

His fingers grip restlessly at the wheel, trying to steady himself. He doesn't know quite how to do this, because Sam's not exactly the damsel in distress he's used to. He's not some petite, feminine thing he can hold against himself and keep safe. Those aren't the roles they have, not even close.

Except he doesn't know how else _to_ do it, because right now that's the only instinct screaming in his brain.

So Gene shoots his hand out, thumps his palm against the other man's chest. Sam flinches in surprise at the sudden movement, staring at him perplexed - and then Gene curls his fingers in his jacket, hauls him insistently across the space in the car. It's clumsy. Sam comes haltingly and half-resisting, not understanding straight away what's happening, not knowing where to put his hands to catch himself. In the end he sort of topples into Gene, hissing pain and holding rigid against him, unmoving.

Gene doesn't care. It feels like the first deep breath he's taken in 29 hours as he pushes his cheek against Sam's bandaged forehead and gets the smells of leather and antiseptic and gunsmoke.

"Stupid _bastard_ ," he mutters through clenched teeth, barely audible.

Gradually, as the evident bafflement passes, Sam relaxes in increments. He's got his chin propped awkwardly up on Gene's shoulder, and carefully shifts about enough that he can more comfortably turn his face into the side of his neck, sighing a bit. One hand hovers uselessly in the air for a moment, then finally sneaks inside Gene's coat to settle against his side, and they go still like that.

It's not the kind of thing they do, this, even with all the other boundaries they've crossed recently. Not usually the touchy-feely types, either one of them. But Gene's blood is rushing like he's just thrown a punch, and he can't get himself to release the death-grip he's got fisted in Sam's shirtfront, or the arm clamped around his back. He keeps remembering the flash of the gunshot, the other man throwing himself at the floor like he'd been hit, all because Gene hadn't found him fast enough -

"M'fine," Sam says again, firm. His hand strokes aimlessly at Gene's ribs and chest, then drifts up to the back of his neck, holding him in place as he leans his forehead to Gene's temple. They rest like that for a minute or so, tension finally starting to ease off, until at last Gene feels the flighty rush of relief and endorphins start to kick in.

Sam pulls back enough to kiss him then, quick and insistent, both of them inhaling sharply at the welcome contact. It's brief. Even at this time of night they're in a public place, visible to anyone looking. Can't risk anything more lingering. But Sam leaves a hand on his knee as he finally eases himself back to his own side of the car.

"Stay at mine when you drop me off."

Gene clears his throat, already starting to feel awkward at the unprecedented display he's just indulged in. He busies himself turning the engine back on, getting the car in gear.

"Might have to," he finally concedes, fixing a scowl in place as he pulls them into reverse, arm over the back of the passenger seat to look behind them. "Some of us have gone without a decent kip the whole time you sat on your arse waiting for rescue -"

"Sod off!" But he's grinning, shaking his head with happy exasperation as Gene drives them home.


	4. Ten/Simm: Sickfic Cuddles

**Prompt: While someone's sick. Ten/Simm**

* * *

They don't notice the Doctor's apparently caught something from their latest travel destination until they're two galaxies and half a millennia away. It's not the kind of thing Time Lords are particularly wary of, picking up illnesses. They have an immune system that fights off most things, and failing that the TARDIS has a sterile field built in which scans and eliminates contaminants.

Neither of them are sure how exactly the Doctor manages to avoid all failsafes, only that, somehow, as he stretches up to adjust the temporal settings on their flight path, there appears to be the beginnings of an angry red rash on the inside of his wrist.

"What the hell is that?" the Master demands when he first sees it, jerking his own hand back from the control panel and safely out of reach.

The Doctor blinks in equal surprise, pushing his sleeve back to examine the marks. "Oh. Not sure. Huh."

The Master wrinkles his nose in distaste at how genuinely _interested_ the other man sounds at the development. He really will do anything for novelty.

"What did you touch?" he snaps accusingly. "...Or should that be ' _who_ '?"

The Doctor shoots him a scathing look, and doesn't bother to address the latter. "I don't know, nothing that's jumping to mind." He runs one finger carefully over the little red lumps. "It doesn't hurt. Not even that itchy."

The Master feels like he's having a stronger vicarious aversion to the whole thing than the Doctor. He can't help looking down at his own hands and wrists, turning them over quickly in search of spots, mercifully finding nothing. Even so, his skin suddenly feels like it's crawling, and he rolls his shoulders unhappily as he imagines half a dozen vicious itches spring up across his back and chest.

"It's probably just a reaction to something," the Doctor dismisses absently, tugging his sleeve back down with a shrug. "Must have an allergy in this regeneration. Can you grab the -?"

But the Master is already striding for the door. "Absolutely not, keep your scabby hands to yourself. Talk to me when you're back to normal." He's going to go shower, thoroughly, and check in the mirror just to be sure that no suspicious blemishes have materialised anywhere on him.

Behind him, the Doctor scoffs. "Thanks for your heartfelt sympathy," he mutters, and then the door closes on whatever further whinging comes next.

* * *

"It's freezing in here."

The Master arches a sceptical eyebrow over the top of the computer tablet he's working on. It most certainly is not. In fact he rather suspects the other Time Lord has already been messing with the ambient temperature settings of the ship to crank it up a few notches.

It's been a few peaceful hours since he left the Doctor tinkering in the control room. He's sprawled across one of the couches in the library, tablet propped up on his chest, so he has to push himself up enough to peer over the back of the cushions, mouth already open to offer the sarcastic response he's got in mind.

But he stops, and blinks wordlessly at the sight he's met with.

The Doctor's discarded his suit jacket and tie, despite his protestations about being cold, and the reason is fairly obvious as the Master flicks a glance down over him. He's sweating visibly, an unhealthy sheen across his forehead and his shirt damp with it. His skin looks flushed, eyes far too bright as his gaze trails disinterestedly around the library

The Master sits up slowly, vaguely incredulous frown in place.

"Are you... actually sick?"

The other man gives him a slightly blank look, and then wanders closer. The Master almost flinches, because he can catch the faint sour _wrongness_ of it now, and can only watch in amazement as the Doctor slumps tiredly onto the other end of the couch like his strings have been cut. This close, he can see through the open collar of his shirt that the rash has spread to his chest.

Frankly, the Master has no idea what he's supposed to do with the development. 

It really isn't often that Time Lords get sick, not like this. He can't even remember being around it before. He has a distant memory that there'd been an opulent, cathedralesque hospice on Gallifrey, for aging Time Lords beyond their final regenerations, but he'd never gone near. And his own brushes with illness and injury have been very different experiences to this.

He stretches out a hand, pausing momentarily in the air, and then hesitantly presses the inside of his wrist against the Doctor's forehead with a little bump. That's what people do, isn't it? He's definitely seen it done. It's an unpleasant sensation, if he's honest, clammy and startlingly hot.

He snatches his hand back in surprise, gingerly wiping it off on his suit trousers.

"You've got a fever," he says, uselessly, like the Doctor might not have noticed.

The other man gives him a half-smile, looking stupidly charmed by his clumsy attempt at diagnostics.

"Yeah. Sorry."

* * *

It gets worse quickly after that.

The fever keeps rising, along with the Master's mounting horror as he realises he's going to have to do something to help, and has precisely no idea what. Irritably, he goes scrounging through the TARDIS medical ward and comes back with ice packs, painkillers, and various medicines that might in some way be useful, dumping the collection in front of the other man.

"Come on, you're the Doctor here - which of these are you prescribing yourself?" 

"S'metaphor," the Doctor slurs slightly, from where he's slumped back against the headboard of his bed. He stares listlessly at the offerings, then lifts a shoulder. "Not medical."

The Master sighs tightly. "Yes, whoever imagined that particular pretension might come back to bite us, hm...?" He shoves one of the ice packs none too gently over the other man's forehead, ordering him to keep it there, and perches on the edge of the bed with his tablet to search through the TARDIS’s database for what else he's supposed to do.

He can't figure out exactly what it is the Doctor's picked up from the planet, although that doesn't surprise him much. They tend to react differently than other species anyway, so there's every chance the same illness presents completely differently, or like nothing at all, in the humans he caught it from.

He is, however, more than a little concerned that whatever's wrong could be contagious. If the Master gets sick as well, it doesn't bode well for either one of them, but he's not sure what other option he has but to take the risk. Leaving any Time Lord in the care of some alien medical facility is out of the question, as far as he's concerned; even the best of them have no understanding of the complex physiology they're dealing with, and the worst aren't always above taking advantage of the chance to study them, which the Master won't tolerate.

But nor can he afford to just... keep his distance, because within the day the Doctor is in no state to look after himself.

The fever makes him lethargic and slow to respond, sulkier than usual in his discomfort. He keeps falling into restless sleep, and when he is awake he's nauseous and dizzy and won't stop scratching at his stupid rash until the Master threatens irritably to restrain him if he keeps going.

For his part, the Master resigns himself to setting up on the couch in the Doctor's bedroom. He brings a book. It turns out to be somewhat optimistic, sadly, because what he actually ends up doing is listening to the Doctor's increasingly pathetic complaints like he's proclaiming dying wishes.

"Nggh. Everything hurts. I can feel my organs hurting. I can feel organs I didn't know I _had_ hurting."

"Take another painkiller," the Master suggests blandly, flipping a page.

"Fine." There's a pause. "...Can you get me a drink?"

With ill grace the Master fetches water, and begrudgingly even sorts food (soup, because it's easier to pin him down and force him to drink it, if he has to, than endure pleading with the uncooperative prat to feed himself). He adjusts the ship temperature to the recommended settings (taking great joy in overriding the Tardis's safeguards against him) and diligently picks through the eclectic mix of mostly alien medications he found earlier, trying to determine which ones will safely treat a fever in a Time Lord by cross referencing against the medical sites he pulls up on his tablet.

He's not what anyone would call a natural caregiver, he suspects, more impatient with the whole process than anything. But he is precise, and capable, and thankfully the Doctor is not unaccustomed to doing as he's told these days.

It's not until he can't get a sensible answer out of the other man that he really starts to worry.

"Go to sleep."

"No, I need to get the... the thing. The _thing_ , you know. With the magnets."

The Master closes his eyes in tired exasperation, and when the Doctor starts pushing off the covers like he's going to get up, he shuts his book with a snap and goes to stop him. A quick, efficient shove puts him flat on his back without issue, and the Master insistently puts the ice pack in place again.

"Stay." It's not unlike having a particularly hapless pet, he thinks, ungenerously, and wonders again how long this is likely to go on for.

Rolling his eyes, he turns for the door. "I'll be back in a minute, I need to -"

" _Don’t_."

The Master glances at him curiously, surprised to find himself met with a strangely fervent expression.

"Don't go." The Doctor says it with such sudden desperation that the Master is immediately sure he's not talking about him just stepping out of the room for a minute. "Don't leave."

"You're delirious," he informs the other Time Lord flatly, prodding at him to try and get him to lie back down. "Go to _sleep_."

The Doctor makes an uncoordinated grab for him, catching at his sleeve. "No, stay. Please. Stay with me."

The Master shakes him off with a frown, a little unnerved. They don't ask each other things like that. They just don't. It's understood.

But then they don't usually get sick, either.

He deliberates silently, unsure of himself, as the Doctor continues to look up at him with a faintly pleading expression.

Finally he sighs, supposing it's as good a way to keep him pliant as any. Reluctantly, he takes off his tie and waistcoat and lays them aside. Then rolls up his shirtsleeves and unbuttons his collar, because the unnatural heat that's pouring off the other Time Lord can be felt even from where he stands at the edge of the bed, and he can only imagine it's going to be worse the nearer he gets. He moves one of the pillows back and sits stiffly on the edge of the bed.

Agitatedly propped up on one elbow, the Doctor watches him with glazed, too-bright eyes, brows pitched up hopefully. His hand sneaks out across the sheets, already plucking at the edges of the Master's shirt before he's even settled. The Master ignores him for the moment, bringing his legs up on the bed to cross atop the covers, adjusting the cushion behind himself so he can sit propped against the headboard. He remembers he's forgotten his book a second too late - because by then the Doctor is already tipping into his lap, cheek resting heavy against his thigh, one arm thrown awkwardly around his waist.

The Master blinks down at him in bemusement, hands hovering a few inches away from touching. Everything he's done today has been beyond the realm of his typical experience, but this...

He's not sure he's ever been anyone's source of comfort before now.

Warily, he lets one hand settle on the Doctor's shoulder, resigning himself to staying put for a while. There's not much else he can do anyway, in terms of pragmatics; there's water on the sidetable, and he's already plied the other man with what food and medications he can keep down. So he tips his head back against the headboard, gaze drifting upwards, and tries to make himself comfortable.

* * *

The Master wakes up disoriented. At some point in the night he's slipped down to lie properly on the bed, finds himself curled on his side half-tangled in the mess of sheets. He squints, looking round himself in confusion - and then experiences a moment of senseless panic as he realises he's alone.

He isn't sure what he thinks, in that brief second. That the Doctor's wandered off, that he's gotten worse, that he'll _make_ himself worse. That - he couldn't possibly, it wasn't that bad, surely? - that he might even have regenerated while the Master slept.

He doesn't have time to fully sit up in alarm before the bathroom door opens, and the Doctor steps out. He looks worse for wear still, bumping tiredly into the doorframe on his way through, but far more aware of himself than he'd seemed last night. And in the same regeneration.

The Master relaxes gradually, embarrassed by his own irrational reaction as he lets himself rest back onto the pillow, rubbing the gritty sleep from his eyes. There's a crick in his neck and his shirt's twisted uncomfortably round him and he's never wanted a shower more in his lives.

The Doctor shuffles toward the end of the bed and manages to crawl onto it, but doesn't quite make it all the way back up to the pillows. He gets far enough to collapse with his face pressed against the Master's stomach, one arm draped loosely over his hip, and clearly calls it good enough.

The Master snorts at the attempt, but deigns to place his hand on the back of the Doctor's head, fingers working through the mess of his hair. It's somewhat unpleasant, the strands still damp with sickly sweat, but the other man is in no position to notice his look of distaste as he continues the motion. The feverish temperature has finally dropped, the Master notes absently.

They're quiet for a few minutes, dozing like that. At length, the Doctor stirs against him, fingers curling loosely on his waist.

"You stayed," he murmurs, words distorted as they're spoken right against his midriff.

The Master frowns, keeping his eyes closed. He feels oddly self-conscious, firstly for having done as asked, and now having it commented on. A list of excuses drift automatically through his head. He hadn't had a choice. He'd been being manipulative. Something... sarcastic.

"Shut up," is all he says, though, in the end.


	5. Ten/Simm: Cuddling for Warmth

**Prompts: Cuddling for warmth / Cuddling f** **or comfort.**

* * *

The Tardis is still exactly where he left it.

He hadn't been expecting that, honestly.

The Master frowns at the blue box, breath misting in front of him as he stands shivering in the remnants of his coat. The ship is still ensconced almost out of sight down the tight alleyway where he'd made his escape from the Doctor's hospitality almost three days ago now. More than enough time for him to have taken the alien city, if he'd really wanted it. The Doctor would have known that, _should_ have come to stop him.

Only he hadn't, and the Master had spent his three days' impromptu shore leave slumming aimlessly round the lower levels, debating with himself and growing increasingly frustrated. He'd had some half-formed idea of commandeering another ship at the port, but no real destination in mind. He'd played with the thought of making a real bid for control, delivering a blow that would have shattered the frozen city like glass so he could pick through the shards at his leisure. But somehow it had seemed a lot of effort for little entertainment value, when he was the only one playing the game.

In the end he'd been lazy and petty, spending his hurt feelings on bar fights and low-level chaos in the poorer sectors. Enough to have drawn the notice of anyone paying attention.

But apparently no one had been, because not once had the Doctor come looking for him.

He seethes resentment as he glares at the Tardis, conspicuous and infuriating in how little it's moved. Would it have been worse to have slunk back here and found it gone entirely? Or is it more humiliating to realise the Doctor seems to be patiently awaiting his ignoble return? He supposes it doesn't matter. Not like he finds himself with a surplus of options.

He crunches through the last few feet of filthy snow towards the Tardis. The door opens easily enough at his touch and the Master slips inside. He finds the control room dark and silent, and hardly much warmer than the icy street outside. His breath still mists visibly in front of him and he shivers slightly in the damp, ripped clothing he's wearing. He picks his way past the central column and along the walkway, familiar with the layout even in the dark, leaving a pair of scuffed leather gloves discarded atop a console as he passes.

The Master trails along the dimly lit corridors of the Tardis. The layout has shifted somewhat in his absence, but he keeps his destination in mind and brushes a hand against the wall as he walks, until a softly pulsing strip of lights illuminate the correct turnings. It occurs to him to wonder at the Tardis's uncharacteristic cooperation, but for the moment he'll take what he can get.

He shucks his sodden wool coat as he goes, letting it crumple carelessly to the floor behind him. His suit jacket joins it after a few more meandering steps, and then he really is shuddering as a chill creeps through the thin, wet material of his shirt. He clenches his teeth, hands flexing restlessly at his sides.

He's expecting to have to hack the security lock barring the Doctor's bedroom when he gets there, and isn't quite sure what to make of it when the door slides open for him without issue. Warmth seeps from the room, and he sways toward it without conscious thought. The lights are out in here as well, and the air smells of sleep and familiarity. He's not sure he belongs.

The other Time Lord is curled on his side in the centre of the mattress, not stirring at his presence. The Master cocks his head, regarding him narrowly for a few moments.

He scans disdainfully across the messy floor, then picks his way across the room and tries to ignore the vague sense that he's intruding. Movements stiff, he sits carefully on the very edge of the bed, barely willing to rest his weight. Even so, he feels the exact moment the dip of the mattress wakes the other man. Something comes alert in the dim room, the prickle of attention sharp against his back.

"You came back."

The voice emerges low and slurred from the nest of covers behind him, faint disbelief evident in the words.

The Master glances down, plucking at a loose thread in the sheets. "You didn't leave," he counters eventually, for lack of anything better to say. He keeps himself quiet too, reluctant to disturb the sleep-thick atmosphere.

There's a lengthy pause, and then the sound of the Doctor pushing himself upright against the pillows. He clears his throat. "Yeah, I... I wanted to wait. This time."

The Master exhales briefly through his nose. He kicks his ruined shoes and socks off, then shoots an arch look back over his shoulder.

His eyes have adjusted enough to the darkness that he can make out the details of the other man. The Doctor's sitting with his knees raised in front of him, covers pushed away. He's wearing a loose cotton T-shirt and striped pyjama pants, hair in disarray from the pillow, watching him with a bemused frown. He looks rumpled and soft and _safe_ in a way the Master thinks is one of his better deceptions.

The Doctor blinks as he catches sight of the Master's face for the first time, noting his split lip and the bruise he wears along one cheekbone.

"What happened?"

The Master begins unbuttoning his shirt, irritable when numb fingers fumble the delicate work. "Disagreement over who buys rounds," he lies blithely, peeling off the damp shirt and letting it slither to the floor. "You should see the other guy."

The weak joke holds double meaning, they're both aware: first the more typical dismissal of further conversation down this route; second the knowledge that the Master is being entirely genuine in his implication he was not the loser of the confrontation that left him slightly bloodied. He suspects the Doctor would be far more upset if he did see 'the other guy'.

Tellingly, the Doctor doesn't pursue the matter.

"Have fun?"

The Master ignores the question, unable to determine if it's as passive aggressive as it sounds. Besides, the Doctor doesn't need to know his answer would be a resounding no.

"You didn't come after me," the Master says abruptly, the near-accusation escaping against his will, and immediately has to look away and close his eyes against embarrassment for himself.

The Doctor fidgets. "I'm not forcing you to stay. I said I wouldn't."

The thing is, he hadn't been too sure on how seriously to take that particular promise. It had seemed like one of those empty principles the Doctor offers so easily. He'd wanted to prove it to both of them, fully intending to crow smug victory when the Doctor inevitably came to fetch him back, all high-handed duty.

The Master doesn't know how he feels about being wrong.

"I'm... glad you came back though," the Doctor adds cautiously.

He wants instantly to insist it doesn't mean anything more than practicality. That he'd been cold and tired and this was as good a shelter as any other he could think of. That he won't be _tricked_ into staying put by whatever attempt at cheap reverse psychology this is. The excuses come so fast they catch in his throat.

As if he can feel the unspoken protests mounting, the Doctor lets the moment go easily enough. He shifts himself to lie down again with a stifled yawn.

"Come on. Get in."

The Master darts another glance. He thinks if the Doctor had looked even slightly calculating he would have resisted the temptation out of little more than spite. But the other man appears to be halfway back to his interrupted sleep already, dozing and unguarded, one arm flopped carelessly towards him across the sheets.

Giving in, the Master quickly unbuckles his belt, shoves the worn slacks down and off himself, and then turns onto the bed. He doesn't bother keeping his distance, sliding smoothly across the space and over the other man's prone form.

The Doctor hums pleased surprise, loose-limbed and accommodating as the Master moves him as he likes. He slots himself between the Doctor's spread legs, rocking his hips down even though neither of them are hard. That's not what he's after, for the moment. Rather, he wants to know that he's still permitted here; that he can bury himself in the warm body and ridiculous pyjamas and be welcome, all the cold, sharp edges of him. The Doctor stretches indulgently beneath him, letting his legs fall further open so the Master can lie properly between them, tilting his head back when the Master presses his face against throat and collarbone to inhale the familiar smell there.

"You're freezing," the Doctor murmurs in lazy complaint, making no effort to push him off.

The Master lets his weight rest heavy, enjoying the way it pins the other man in place. He smooths a hand down the Doctor's waist, feeling the groove of prominent ribs and pointy hipbone beneath the thin cotton. The Doctor hisses protest as he slips under the T-shirt, arching helplessly away from contact with his frigid fingers.

"You only want me for my body heat," comes the whinging accusation, and the Master is glad he can hide a smile against the other man's collar.

He says nothing to confirm or deny, instead letting his other hand find skin as well. One dips below the Doctor's back where he's arched up off the mattress, flattening against the base of his spine. The other he spreads across the plane of the Doctor's stomach, pushing his chill fingertips into the vulnerable spot. The side of his thumb strokes idly along the trail of dark hair there and he rolls his hips down again, with more interest now, although still not enough to do anything about it until he's warmer.

The Doctor shifts so they're both more comfortable, one bare ankle hooking over the back of the Master's thigh, arm draped across his shoulders. "This is awful," he mutters, already sounding half asleep again. "You're awful." He reaches down and grabs blindly for the covers, managing to tug them into place across the two of them.

"Hm," the Master agrees. He feels the Doctor slip back into sleep, utterly at ease beneath the weight of him, and wants to scorn the display of trust - but he's pulled under too fast by stolen heat and comfort, and they sink together into contented oblivion.


End file.
